I try not to be biased or discriminatory, but I had my doubts about hiring Stevie. His placement counselor assured me that he would be a good, reliable busboy. But I had never had a mentally-handicapped employee, and wasn't sure how my customers would react to Stevie. He was short, a little dumpy with the smooth facial features and thick-tongued speech of those with Downs Syndrome. I wasn't worred about my trucker customers; truckers don't care who buses a table as long as the meatloaf platter is good and the pies are homemade.
The four-wheeler drivers were the ones who concerned me: the mouthy college kids traveling to school; the yuppie snobs who secretly polish the silverware with their napkins for fear of catching some dreaded "truck stop germs"; the pairs of white-shirted businessmen on expense accounts who think every truck stop waitress wants to be flirted with. I knew these people might be uncomfortable around Stevie, so I closely watched him for the first few weeks.
I shouldn't have worried. After the first week, Stevie had my staff wrapped around his stubby little finger, and within a month my truck-driving regulars had adopted him as their official truck stop mascot. After that, I really didn't care what my other customers thought of Stevie. He was a 21-year-old in blue jeans and sneakers, eager to laugh and eager to please, but fiercely attentive to his duties. Every salt and pepper shaker was precisely in place, not a bread crumb was visible after Stevie got done cleaning a table. Our biggest problem was persuading him to wait until after the customers were finished before cleaning up. He'd hover in the background, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, scanning the dining room until he found an empty table. Then he'd scurry over and carefully remove the dishes and glasses, then meticulously wipe the table up with a practiced flourish of his wet rag.
We had learned that he lived with this mother, a widow disabled from repeated cancer surgeries. They survived meagerly on Social Security benefits in public housing just two miles from my restaurant. Money was tight, and what I paid him was probably the difference between them living together or Stevie being sent to a group home. That's why the truck stop was a gloomy place last August, the first morning in three years that Stevie missed work. He was at the Mayo Clinic getting a new valve put in his heart. His social worked explained that people with Downs Syndrome often have heart problems, so this was not unexpected. There was a good chance he'd come through the surgery in good shapre, and would be back to work in a few months. A ripple of relief ran though the staff later that morning when word came that the surgery went well, and Stevie was doing fine. Frannie, my head waitress, let out a war whoop and did a little dance in the aisle. When Beller Ringer, one of our regulars, asked, "What's that all about, Frannie?", she told him, and the two truckers sitting with him, the good news. "But I don't know how he and his mom are going to handle the bills. They're barely getting by as it is."
I hadn't had time to round up a substitute bus boy, and the girls really didn't want me to replace Stevie, so they resorted to cleaning up their own tables while Stevie was out. Frannie didn't get around to cleaning Belle's table until after he'd left and Pony Pete and Tony Tipper sat at the still-dirty table. "When I got back to clean their table," Frannie told me, "I found this napkin folded uner a coffee cup." She handed the napkin to me and three $20 bills fell out. On the outside, printed in big bold letters was, "Something for Stevie". Frannie continued: "Pony Pete and Tony Tipper asked me what that was all about, so I told them. They ended up giving me this." Two folded napkins with "Something for Stevie" scrawled on the outside revealed two crisp fifty-dollar bills. Frannie looked at me with wet, shiny eyes, and said simply, "Truckers".
That was three months ago. On Thanksgiving Day Stevie came back to work. He'd called ten times to remind me that he was returning to work, fearful that I'd forgotten about him in the three months he'd been gone. I asked his mom to bring him to work that day, then invited them to celebrate Stevie's first day back. He was thinner and a little pale, but he pushed his way through the door and headed for the back room where his apron and bus cart stood waiting for him. "Hold on there," I said, "not so fast, Stevie. Work can wait for a few minutes. To celebrate your returning to work, I want to treat you and your mom to breakfast." I led them to a large corner booth at the back of the room. I could feel the rest of the staff behind us as we marched through the main dining room. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw booth after booth of grinning truckers empty out to join the procession. The big table was covered with coffee cups, plates and saucers, all sitting slightly crooked on dozens of folded napkins. "First thing you have to do, Stevie, is clean up this mess," I said, trying to sound very stern.
He looked at me and then at his mom, then pulled out one of the napkins. It had "Something for Stevie" scrawled on the outside, and as Stevie picked it up, two $10 bills fell out. Stevie stared at the money, then at all the napkins peeking from beneath the tableware, each with his name printed on it. I turned to his mother and announced, "There's more than $10,000 is cash and checks on that table, all from truckers and trucking companies who heard about your problems. Happy Thanksgiving."
Well, it got real noisy about that time, with everybody hollering and shouting - and shedding a few tears as well. But you know what's funny? As everyone else was busy shaking hands and hugging each other, Stevie was busy clearning all the cups and dishes away from the table. That big smile on his face told me how grateful he was for the friends he'd made here, and how much he valued his job. Best worker I ever had.
Stories like these can bring tears to even the most calloused people. And yet it's stories like these that makes one wonder why America has gone so askew. It's stories like these that recognize the true spirit of America.
Most of America's corrupt, arrogant politicians were now dead. Greedy chief executive officers had been killed. Professional athletes and big-time celebrities who squandered their good fortune on themselves hadn't survived the O.U.T.R.A.G.E. bombings. Wealthy elitists, evil bureaucrats, selfish 'self-made millionaires' and most people in positions of useless power or status had been 'exterminated'. The tens of millions of selfless, considerate, giving, loving, caring citizens could now make a fresh start and bring America back to its roots. Compassion could replace grandiosity. Goodness could replace evil. For the first time in decades, power could be returned to the poor, the weak, the underprivileged, the disadvantaged, the homeless, the hungry, the disabled, and the 'common' people of the great United States of America. People like Stevie......
The four-wheeler drivers were the ones who concerned me: the mouthy college kids traveling to school; the yuppie snobs who secretly polish the silverware with their napkins for fear of catching some dreaded "truck stop germs"; the pairs of white-shirted businessmen on expense accounts who think every truck stop waitress wants to be flirted with. I knew these people might be uncomfortable around Stevie, so I closely watched him for the first few weeks.
I shouldn't have worried. After the first week, Stevie had my staff wrapped around his stubby little finger, and within a month my truck-driving regulars had adopted him as their official truck stop mascot. After that, I really didn't care what my other customers thought of Stevie. He was a 21-year-old in blue jeans and sneakers, eager to laugh and eager to please, but fiercely attentive to his duties. Every salt and pepper shaker was precisely in place, not a bread crumb was visible after Stevie got done cleaning a table. Our biggest problem was persuading him to wait until after the customers were finished before cleaning up. He'd hover in the background, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, scanning the dining room until he found an empty table. Then he'd scurry over and carefully remove the dishes and glasses, then meticulously wipe the table up with a practiced flourish of his wet rag.
We had learned that he lived with this mother, a widow disabled from repeated cancer surgeries. They survived meagerly on Social Security benefits in public housing just two miles from my restaurant. Money was tight, and what I paid him was probably the difference between them living together or Stevie being sent to a group home. That's why the truck stop was a gloomy place last August, the first morning in three years that Stevie missed work. He was at the Mayo Clinic getting a new valve put in his heart. His social worked explained that people with Downs Syndrome often have heart problems, so this was not unexpected. There was a good chance he'd come through the surgery in good shapre, and would be back to work in a few months. A ripple of relief ran though the staff later that morning when word came that the surgery went well, and Stevie was doing fine. Frannie, my head waitress, let out a war whoop and did a little dance in the aisle. When Beller Ringer, one of our regulars, asked, "What's that all about, Frannie?", she told him, and the two truckers sitting with him, the good news. "But I don't know how he and his mom are going to handle the bills. They're barely getting by as it is."
I hadn't had time to round up a substitute bus boy, and the girls really didn't want me to replace Stevie, so they resorted to cleaning up their own tables while Stevie was out. Frannie didn't get around to cleaning Belle's table until after he'd left and Pony Pete and Tony Tipper sat at the still-dirty table. "When I got back to clean their table," Frannie told me, "I found this napkin folded uner a coffee cup." She handed the napkin to me and three $20 bills fell out. On the outside, printed in big bold letters was, "Something for Stevie". Frannie continued: "Pony Pete and Tony Tipper asked me what that was all about, so I told them. They ended up giving me this." Two folded napkins with "Something for Stevie" scrawled on the outside revealed two crisp fifty-dollar bills. Frannie looked at me with wet, shiny eyes, and said simply, "Truckers".
That was three months ago. On Thanksgiving Day Stevie came back to work. He'd called ten times to remind me that he was returning to work, fearful that I'd forgotten about him in the three months he'd been gone. I asked his mom to bring him to work that day, then invited them to celebrate Stevie's first day back. He was thinner and a little pale, but he pushed his way through the door and headed for the back room where his apron and bus cart stood waiting for him. "Hold on there," I said, "not so fast, Stevie. Work can wait for a few minutes. To celebrate your returning to work, I want to treat you and your mom to breakfast." I led them to a large corner booth at the back of the room. I could feel the rest of the staff behind us as we marched through the main dining room. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw booth after booth of grinning truckers empty out to join the procession. The big table was covered with coffee cups, plates and saucers, all sitting slightly crooked on dozens of folded napkins. "First thing you have to do, Stevie, is clean up this mess," I said, trying to sound very stern.
He looked at me and then at his mom, then pulled out one of the napkins. It had "Something for Stevie" scrawled on the outside, and as Stevie picked it up, two $10 bills fell out. Stevie stared at the money, then at all the napkins peeking from beneath the tableware, each with his name printed on it. I turned to his mother and announced, "There's more than $10,000 is cash and checks on that table, all from truckers and trucking companies who heard about your problems. Happy Thanksgiving."
Well, it got real noisy about that time, with everybody hollering and shouting - and shedding a few tears as well. But you know what's funny? As everyone else was busy shaking hands and hugging each other, Stevie was busy clearning all the cups and dishes away from the table. That big smile on his face told me how grateful he was for the friends he'd made here, and how much he valued his job. Best worker I ever had.
Stories like these can bring tears to even the most calloused people. And yet it's stories like these that makes one wonder why America has gone so askew. It's stories like these that recognize the true spirit of America.
Most of America's corrupt, arrogant politicians were now dead. Greedy chief executive officers had been killed. Professional athletes and big-time celebrities who squandered their good fortune on themselves hadn't survived the O.U.T.R.A.G.E. bombings. Wealthy elitists, evil bureaucrats, selfish 'self-made millionaires' and most people in positions of useless power or status had been 'exterminated'. The tens of millions of selfless, considerate, giving, loving, caring citizens could now make a fresh start and bring America back to its roots. Compassion could replace grandiosity. Goodness could replace evil. For the first time in decades, power could be returned to the poor, the weak, the underprivileged, the disadvantaged, the homeless, the hungry, the disabled, and the 'common' people of the great United States of America. People like Stevie......
posted by Bushwacker! at 6:05 AM
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